


Let the Games Begin

by carryonstarkid



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen, Love Expressed Through Various Forms of Murder, These Women are Better Than You, fluff central
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid
Summary: A night on the town with the people we love.





	1. Scott and Jane

Scott Tracy is fully accustomed to the idea of being armed.  He’s spent long summers overseas with a hundred pounds of weaponry slung over his shoulders.  He’s spent entire nights stuffed in the cockpit of a plane wearing a vest laced with loaded guns.  Even now, though he lacks a uniform, he shoots with the utmost precision—gut shots, mostly, unless one of his brothers is stupid enough to leave his chest open.  At that point, they’re basically asking for it.

Laser tag, after all, is not to be taken lightly.

Virgil’s actually the worst of them all, but to be fair Virgil has quite a bit _more_ to keep covered than the rest of them do.  He may as well have a target on his back and, between Scott and Gordon, that target has been hit at least fourteen times.  That’s not even counting Alan’s hits.  Apparently all those first-person shooters are doing something for him after all.  Virgil was dead meat the second he stepped into the building.

It’s the women who are really delivering the heat which, once Scott takes a moment to think about it, doesn’t surprise him.  Kayo’s their head of security and he’s pretty sure she was born with a gun on her hip.  Penelope is… well.  She’s Penelope, and Scott’s not exactly sure what her job entails, but he _is_ sure that she’s significantly more trained in firearms than he is, and he's no schmuck.  And then, of course, there’s Jane.

Captain Carter, formally, but Scott’s under the impression that dinner and laser tag with the family pushes her firmly into Jane territory.  At the very least, the fact that she’s absolutely _slaughtered_  his brothers on multiple different occasions seems like the sort of thing that might constitute the use of her first name, if not as his date then as his newly-sworn nemesis.

Still.  “Captain.”

She freezes, as if the gun at her back is one-hundred-percent genuine.  And hell, in this black-lit zone of sticky stenches and piercing screams, maybe it is.  “Captain,” she responds.  “Looks like you’ve got me cornered.”

There’s a grin on Scott’s part, sly and righteous.  Call it the satisfaction of finally getting one up on her.  Call it vengeance for his four dead brothers (seventeen dead brothers, if one counts repeated deaths), but there’s _something_ in the air between them and whatever it is, Scott’s thoroughly enjoying it.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  Is that a problem for you?”

“Less of a problem than you think it is,” she says.  “You wouldn’t shoot a girl, would you?”

“I wouldn’t lose a blink of sleep over it.”

She _tsks_.  “Darn.  And here I thought you were one of the good ones.”

He keeps his movements slow, certain, because if there’s anything he’s learned about her in the past forty-seven minutes, it’s that she thrives on speed.  “I don’t know what would make you think that,” he says.

The tip of the plastic gun clicks against her backplate.  It would only take one twitch of the finger for Scott to emerge victorious.  “Well you _did_ pay for dinner,” she reminds him.

“Doesn’t count,” he says.  “I’m disgustingly rich.”

“And you _did_ come to the door to pick me up.”

“Had to stretch my legs.  Purely selfish.”

There’s a huff—something that _could_ be a laugh, if she weren’t about to die by her date’s hand.  “Mhmm.  And I bet you have an excuse for the flowers, too.”

“In fact, I do,” he says, and even though she’s a great deal shorter than him, he finds himself incredibly close.  “I was desperately hoping you were allergic.”

There it is.  That crack in her training—a laugh like a bell.  Life, liberty, and Captain Jane Carter’s happiness.  “Scott Tracy, you are the _worst_.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“So I guess a man of your nature isn’t prone to truces, then?”

“Not one bit, Captain.”

“Not even if I do this?”

She’s quick.  Damn quick.  Before he can even pull the trigger, she’s all turned around with a hand in his hair and a kiss on his lips and a solid one, two, three, before she pulls back again.  It takes Scott exactly that long to realize that anything’s even happening at all and by that point, he’s missed it.  This is what she does.  It’s infuriatingly effective at making him want more.  “Well,” he says.  “That’s pretty convincing.”

“I thought it might be.”

She’s got a hand on his shoulder and he, a hand on her hip.  Their chestplates knock together, and she’s looking up at him with big blue eyes, and suddenly he understands why some soldiers can’t wait to get home.  “I’ll tell you what,” he says.  “My brothers are taking some serious hits to their ego.  You stop kicking their asses and we’ll see what kind of truce can be made.”

“Oh, Scott,” she says.  It’s just as quick as before, up on her toes, kissing him like there’s not one second to waste, but this time Scott’s sure to hang on to it.  To make the moments last.  He’s _earned_ this kiss.  He’s a great guy, letting her off the hook like this.  He’s the best guy in the whole goddamn—

Oh, what the _fuck._

There’s a click of the plastic, a flash of the lights, and his chestplate lets out the cheesiest tune of death he’s ever heard.  “Did you just _shoot_  me?”  She’s laughing again, and goddamnit if Scott Tracy isn’t a sucker for that laugh.  “You _shot_ me.  You just—you _traitor_.”

“Your brothers aren’t the only ones taking hits to their ego,” she says, with a pat to his chest.  “I believe you have a three-minute recharge period.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” he says, because there’s little more he can think to say.  Oh my god, you just shot me.  Oh my god, I can’t believe I fell for that.  Oh my god, that’s the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen in my life.  Oh my _god_.

“Rest up, Scott,” she says, and with a two-fingered salute, she turns on her heel and starts towards the rest of the battle.  “I’ll see you in three minutes.”

As he watches her go, one foot after the other, draped in glowing plastic armor, Scott knows that if he were the type of person who sighed, then she would be responsible for every last breath.


	2. Virgil and Brains

Brains has never won a game of laser tag.  In fact, Brains has only ever come in dead last which, really, just isn’t right.  What they have here is a clear sitting-duck scenario and his brothers ought to know better—especially the older two.  With as much practice as they have at letting the little guy win, they should be able to take one look at Brains, toddling around with a gun in clumsy hands, hiking up armor that doesn’t quite fit right, and know that they’re meant to look the other way.

Instead, they shoot him.  A lot.  Every time.  All the minutes start to add up and eventually, Brains gets to the point where he spends more time as a dead man than a soldier.  Not cool.

Not that it seems to bother Brains at all—oh no.  Whenever the words _laser tag_  are muttered within a ten-meter radius of the resident engineer, he lights up, gets all his plans in order.  Virgil’s pretty sure that if he were to sneak a glance at Brains’ calendar, those very same words would be written in big red block letters, circled three times over, with about three separate arrows pointed at it.  Excitement doesn’t even begin to cover Brains’ feelings towards laser tag.

Which is why it’s very important that he not get shot unless it is entirely unavoidable.  Which is why Virgil has been hit a record number of times this afternoon.

“Remind me again why we decided to come out and play laser tag with a bunch of soldiers?”

Brains is about three steps behind, newly recharged from his latest hit and ready to shoot.  Himself.  He’s holding his gun backward.  Swear to god, sometimes Brains is so intelligent, he forgets to be smart.  “This is quality family bonding time.”

Virgil sets the gun straight.  “Gordon just told me he’d see me in Hell as he shot me in the back.  Not even five minutes ago.  You were there.”

“You s-see what I mean?” says Brains.  “Your brother wishes to spend an eternity with you, all because you came to bond with him today.”

“You and I are reading that subtext a little differently, I think.”

“Virgil.”

“Although, you’re right—an eternity with Gordon would be Hell.”

“ _Virgil_.“

“A private island,” says Virgil.  “That’s all I’m saying.  We literally own a private island with a _secret science lab_ in our _volcano,_ and I am thousands of miles away from—”

Virgil’s vest lights up.  The chirps of death sound from the speakers on each of his shoulders.  He springs immediately into a frantic search for the source—a manic Gordon or a trigger-happy Alan hidden somewhere in the shadows.  His eyes latch on to what little bits of light he can find, looking for movement.  Phosphorescent pinks and greens and whites, giant sculptures meant to be climbed and big, bulking cubes meant for hiding.  He should be able to find even the smallest something, but nothing, nothing, nothing shows itself until—

Brain’s smile glows against the darkness.

“… what?” says Virgil, thoroughly confused.  “Did you just—?”

"Yes I did,” says Brains, poking his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  “You were being a g-grump.  So I shot you.”

It’s a rare show for Brains.  Under no circumstance would Virgil ever call him cowardly, but he is a reserved sort of man who is far more likely to let most things slide than he is to, well, _shoot_ someone over them.  Apparently laser tag is not one of those things.  “You sir, are a traitor and a murderer.”

It’s a one-shoulder shrug from the engineer and, honestly?  It makes him look pretty smooth.  “I think I can get over it.”

Virgil’s caught watching that smile as it grows wider and wider until finally a laugh sparks between them.  Virgil’s caught watching someone whose armor doesn’t quite fit—someone who doesn’t even hold his gun right half the time.  Brains never wins a game of laser tag, but as Virgil listens to that laugh, he thinks that maybe Brains wins _every_ game of laser tag.

But the laughter yields to the song of death, this time from Brains.  His vest lights up, his smile dims, and Alan stands at his back, cackling his way back into the darkness.  A sitting duck once more.

Virgil’s jaw sets.  “Excuse me,” he says, marching straight past Brains.  “I’ve got to go shoot my brother.”


	3. Alan and Kayo

It’s okay to have _fun_ every now and again.

And Alan’s idea of fun doesn’t include math—really.  It doesn’t—but it’s a side effect of being a Tracy that he can’t stop running the numbers.  Especially when six International Rescue pilots take an unthinkable four hours off for something as trivial as dinner and laser tag.  Especially when, any other day, those same four hours would be dedicated to a tropical storm, to a minor landslide, to the hunting and disabling of at least seven orbital mines.  Sometimes two plus two doesn’t equal four.  Sometimes it adds up to families and homes and lives.

It is for this reason that he chooses to believe in fate, not because he wants to, but because he has to.  Because without fate it’s hard to believe that anyone is really meant to die from an accident, especially those who he would have otherwise saved within these four hours.  He’ll tell himself that they were going to die anyways—that he and his brothers only ever subtract from worldwide fatalities and that the absence of subtraction is not addition, it’s just neutrality.

But the problem with fate is that it rejects math.  There are no set values and there is no order of operations.  Maybe he’s supposed to go out to laser tag and the fathers, sisters, friends he neglects are simply meeting their fate.  On the other hand, maybe he’s ignoring his own fate by going out to dinner, and he’s failed to help the people who were cosmically depending on him.  It doesn’t add up.  There’s nothing quantitative about any of this.

Gordon says they can’t worry about it.  Alan tries to listen, but if he doesn’t believe in the half-baked excuse fate provides, he can’t even believe in himself.  Maybe he’ll just shoot people instead.

“If you think I’m ever going to trust you with a real gun, you’re mistaken.”

Kayo’s on the opposite side of the main aisle, crouched behind a neon pink cube across from Alan’s neon blue.  She’s taught him how to better handle his laser gun, taught him how to take cover, and taught him how to get a perfect shot seventy percent of the time.  As a result, Alan’s doubled his hit count and Kayo gets to lay claim to a third of his total points when all is said and done. They’re something of a team at the moment, but both are waiting for the moment the other turns on them.

“C’mon, Kayo,” Alan says, his gun pointed towards the sky.  “Have a little fun.”

“What is the _one thing_ I told you not to do?”

There’s a roll of the eyes.  “Shoot Brains.”

“And what did you do?”

“Rules were made to be broken,” he says.  “It’s not my fault his back was open.”

“Rules were made to maintain order,” she spits back.  “And it _is_ your fault that Virgil’s hunting us down.”

“Technically he’s only hunting me down.  You could leave.”

“I might just take you up on that offer.”

She’s up in a flash and he's reminded of why her ‘bird is named Shadow.  She vanishes in the darkness, footsteps silent, not even the click of gear giving her position away.  She’s taking it too seriously, making it out to be a real game of spy, but it’s moments like these that remind him she _is_ a spy.  This _is_ fun for her.

Sometimes he forgets to run the math on Kayo.  Sometimes he forgets that she’s more than just his sister.  Kayo contains infinities, and it’s easiest to spot them when she’s hiding in the shadows.  “Wait!” he calls out.  “I didn’t mean—”

“Shh.”

“I was just kidding—”

“ _Shh.”_

Alan clambers over to her side, his path far less graceful than hers, until both of them are crouching down at the base of a big foam staircase, outlined in strips of glowing neon.  “What are you—?”

“Oh for the love—shut _up_ , Alan,” she tells him.  “I lost him.”

“Who, Virgil?” says Alan.  “He’s, like, six tons of fury headed straight for us.  How can you—?”

Alan’s cut off by the speakers in each ear, and he looks down to watch his vest twinkle across his heart.  He clutches his chest, his pride sufficiently wounded, and he brings the back of his hand to his forehead.  “Oh!  Sweet death!  Take me now before I may know torture and defeat!”

Kayo only rolls her eyes.  It was not her gun that shot him, but she wears a smirk that takes some amount of credit.  “Hate to break it to you, little bro,” says a voice he really should have expected.  “But you already do know defeat.”

Alan falls to the floor, his armor clattering with the landing, but it can hardly be heard above the sounds of his performance.  “The light!  I see… _the light_.  Remember me, Kayo.  Remember me for who I was, not for who I am.”

“Keep that up and we might just start calling you Gordon,” Virgil says.  With this, a very, very dead Alan looks up from his very, very dead grave.  Virgil towers above, satisfaction gleaming, as he shares a glance with Kayo.  “Nice work.”

Kayo shrugs.  “My pleasure,” she says.  Then, to Alan.  “Sorry, but we both knew it was going to happen at some point and you were getting a little cocky.”

Alan looks back up at Virgil.  “Using my own teammate against me,” he says.  “Not cool.”

“Hey, she just set up the shot.”  Virgil doesn’t even offer a hand to help his brother up which, yeah okay, maybe he deserves that much.  “It’s not her fault your back was open.”

And maybe he deserved that too.  “Well this sucks,” he says.  He sits up, spry as spring, and starts to run the math in his head.  “So that’s one more point for you,” he says.  “And that puts you in… seventh?  How many points does John have?”

“Too many,” says Kayo.

“And how many hits has he taken?”

“Last I heard, he was still clean,” says Virgil.  “About ten minutes ago.”

It is a side effect of being a Tracy that Alan will never stop running the numbers.  Boys who grow up with blood on their hands will never be able to scrub it off.  But for now, in this crappy little laser tag joint, Alan gets distracted by a different brand of math.  A grin grows across his lips, exposing a purple smile.  “I think it’s about time we had a little fun, don’t you?”


	4. Gordon and Penelope

Gordon is good at shooting things.  Like, _really_ good.  Laser guns: no sweat.  Paintball?  Easy as building a pod.  He’s got a sharp eye and a steady hand and, if he were the sort of person who thought game hunting was even a little bit ethical, he could likely top Uncle Lee’s latest bragging record with his eyes shut.  He always hits his target.  Always.

Penelope is better.  Penelope is much, much better.

And that’s scary.  Really.  It really is incredibly frightening to know what kind of stats she has, except it’s also—well.  It’s also not, because honestly?  Watching her with a gun is sort of like watching a spider spin its web.  It’s all these fascinating, intricate little movements, and even though he _knows_ that it’s dangerous and he  _knows_ that something bad is about to happen, he can’t look away.  He wants to know how it works—wants to know how in the _world_ a creature could be capable of such a thing.  One of these days, Penelope is going to consume him completely.

Which is exactly why he needs to take her out.

“Alpha team, we move in on my count.”  Stakes are high.  Death is certain.  Every word he speaks is one of a bold, brave command.  “The codeword is Rochambeau and—oh god. Where’d she go?”

He spins.  Once.  Twice.  His target has vanished, because while he may be very good at taking aim, Penelope is far better at dodging it.  “We’ve got to _move_ people,” he hisses.  “Go, go, go!”

It’s a tuck.  Then a roll.  He crouches low as he swerves between big neon blocks of pink and gold and blue.  He avoids patterns, takes random routes throughout the field in order to avoid being captured.  He feels her breath on his neck even though she’s nowhere in sight, and he knows that he’s being watched.  Or he’s paranoid, but probably the former— _mmm_.  Actually, 50/50.

He has black stripes under his eyes and a black hood pulled over blond hair. Penelope hadn’t been so smart and her hair gives her away—or it _would,_ if there were _anything_ that gave her away.  Probably the scariest thing about Penelope is that she can play laser tag in the color pink and win—well, almost win, if you count John, but no one counts John.

“We are officially behind enemy lines,” he says.  “If I die, tell my family not to eat the tuna salad in the fridge.  That container is clearly marked with my name and I’m taking it with me _to my grave_ —”

“Who _are_ you talking to?”

“Oh my _shit_.”  He isn’t sure which part he’s supposed to feel more embarrassed by—the fact that the very person he’s hunting has snuck up behind him, or the fact that she’s heard him commanding a definitely-not-imaginary troop through a definitely-not-imaginary comms system.  It’s a tossup, really, and it sends him flying backward into one, two, three steps until the world is swept out from under him and everything is upside-down.

It’s enough to knock the wind straight out of his chest, enough to knock the gun straight out of his hand, enough to make him wonder why the hell he would ever take on Penelope in the first place.  He’s the fly to her spider and now he’s gone and gotten himself tangled up in her web.  Literally.

The rope starts at his ankles, then wraps around his legs in tidy knots.  It spirals down all the way to his chest and he’s hanging there, red-faced and a little woozy, trying to figure out how any of this is even possible.  “I’m just so impressed right now, I can’t even be mad.”

“Mmm.”  She takes those steps closer to him and bends down to pick up his own gun.  She points it at him—a truly merciless woman—and only then does she smile.  “I could kill you, you know.”

“Where did you even get this rope?”

She holds the gun to his head.  “Bang.  You’re dead.”

“And what kind of _knots_ are these?”

She holds it to his chest.  “Bang.  You’re dead.”

“I just can’t believe you _actually_ booby-trapped me.”

“Bang, bang, bang.  Now you’re really dead.”

“And yet you still haven’t pulled the trigger,” he observes.  “Why is that, exactly, Lady P?”

“I’ll have you know that—”

She doesn’t get to finish, because Gordon always hits his target and right now his target has nothing to do with laser bullets and singing chest plates.  Instead, it has everything to do with the woman in pink, the way her hair glows purple under black light, and the fact that she tastes like a finely aged wine, even at a sticky laser tag joint in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas.  It doesn’t last long— _can’t_ last long, because Gordon’s swinging every which way and every smooth move he makes is met with an equal and opposite reaction.

Penelope blinks.  Once.  Twice.  

Gordon smiles.  “Bang,” he says.  “Now _you’re_ dead.”

She runs a hand through his hair, steadying him.  “You flatter yourself.”

“I’m a very flattering guy,” he says with a shrug that doesn’t quite work the way it’s supposed to.  “Now how ‘bout you let me down and—”

“Oh no, no, no darling,” she says.  “You see, there’s a reason you’re up here.  I can’t have someone creeping up on my high score, now can I?”

“You’re not seriously considering just leaving me here.”

“No, you're right,” she says.  “I’m not considering it.  It’s already been decided.”

“Pen—”

“ _Shhhh_ ,” she says, laying a finger on his lips.  It sends a shiver up his spine.  Or down his spine.  Which way is up again?  And is it hot in here?  “You’ll get a very respectable second place.”

“Right, because second place is exactly where I like to be,” he says.  “Gordon Tracy: Olympic Silver Medalist.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to steal all my hits,” she says.  She inspects his gun a bit closer now, stuffing it into a back pocket somewhere, although _where_ , exactly, he isn’t sure.  “You just stay here and I will let you know when I’ve won.”

“But—”

And now it's his turn to be interrupted, and it turns out that she’s better at this part, too.  Maybe it’s just the blood rushing to his head, but he’s pretty sure that he’s swimming in wine.  

At least until he hears death’s noble tune.

It comes from her speakers, not his, and it’s followed by disembodied laughter.   _John’s_ disembodied laughter, to be more specific, and when Penelope pulls away, Gordon makes a note to actually, literally _kill_ his older brother.  “Where is he even _shooting_ from?” he says.

Gordon watches her eyes and sees how she spins her plans, watches as she weaves another web.  “Gordon,” she says.  “I am going to hunt down your brother.”

She pulls one end of the rope—just a single strand—and the whole thing comes crashing down.  Gordon lands on his back, knocking the wind out of him for a second time.  “Not only that,” she says, “but I am going to use the most advanced, most accurate, most _powerful_ techniques ever developed by the field of intelligence to find him and kill him.”

Gordon makes a pathetic crawl back up to his own two feet.  She shoves his gun back into his chest and starts scanning the area.  “Someone’s finally letting me shoot John, huh?” he says.  “Hell.  Sign me up.”


	5. John and EOS

As it so happens, John frequently wants to shoot his brothers, but laser tag is the only time when it is both ethically and morally sound to do so.  He also happens to be disproportionately excellent at _getting_ shot which makes it very hard to live out his dreams of massacring the most beloved people in his life—or at least it used to, but that was before he found the Spot.

Technically speaking EOS found the Spot, but John’s the one who figured out how to use it to his advantage.  See, he likes positioning himself up high because the ground makes him feel blind, and he likes to lay low because of the aforementioned great-at-getting-shot thing, which makes the hidden ledge above the jungle gym the perfect place for him.  He can keep an eye on the world below him and take all the time in the world to line up the perfect shot.  It’s exactly the way he likes things.  An abundance of data input followed by a fatally accurate output.

“Thunderbird Three at your two o’clock,” she tells him.  “Ready for fire in three, two, one—”

There’s an artificial _pew_ from John’s gun and then a great long groan from Alan.  It’s funny when they look around, as if _this_ will finally be the time they find John, but it won’t be. Not to brag or anything, but he’s a _little bit_ indestructible from this position.

“Captain Carter is rounding the northeast ball pit,” EOS goes on.  “Ready to fire?”

“Let her go for now,” John says.  “Scott’s a pain in my ass and she’s doing a pretty good job keeping him out of the game.  Consider it a delegation of responsibilities.”

“Why you take so much joy in the hypothetical death of your family, I do not understand.”

“It’s all the benefits of murder without all the repercussions.”

“Thunderbird Two, eleven o’clock.  Three, two, one—” Fire.  Satisfaction floods him as Virgil takes a long, aggravated huff.  It’s a feeling that only lasts for a few moments before EOS is in his ears again.  “The benefits of murder?”

John had long ago grown accustomed to the thought of EOS acting as something of a reflection of himself, but she has these moments when his words will come out of her mouth and suddenly they sound all wrong.  Like a parent who doesn’t truly realize how much they swear until they hear the baby repeat it.  “… I want to make it clear that there are no benefits to actual murder.”

“But you just said—”

“It’s possible that I do not have a sense of humor that is particularly conducive to the morally sound development of a young AI.”

“I’m seeing sources that say adrenaline is a large benefit.  The greater the risk, the greater reward.”

Ahh, great.  She’s Googling it.  Because _benefits of murder_ is exactly the kind of search history that needs to show up in the database of Thunderbird Five.  Not only is she a toddler who can repeat swear words, but she can also look up all of the other ones and spit them back in his face.

“The murder rate appears to be higher in countries with the death penalty and studies suggest—”

“I just want to make it very clear that murder is still not a great thing.”

“John—”

“I mean, I _know_ that biologically speaking there are benefits, but the disadvantages far outweigh—”

“No, John—”

“I don’t care what Google says.  I’m telling you—”

“John Tracy, what _are_ you muttering about?”

That voice isn’t EOS.  That voice is very, _very_ not EOS and John comes to realize that he’s missed all the warnings.  That, in fact, his AI had  _not_ been debating the finer points of murder and had instead been trying to inform him of an intruder.

Penelope is five feet, two inches of raw determination.  This has been true since the first day he met her and probably long before that, so he had figured that eventually this would happen. If anyone in this room could hunt him down it was undoubtedly, undeniably her.  He knows this and actually, EOS reminds him of this every time they take aim in her direction.  Each shot at Penelope is a calculated risk.

Evidently, there’s been a miscalculation.  But no matter.  He’d planned for this.  “Well it’s about time,” he says.

“About time indeed,” she replies.  “About time someone take that gun of yours and shove it up your—”

“I need your help.”  This is untrue.  John in no way needs Penelope’s help and the fact of the matter is that he’s doing quite spectacularly without it, but that won’t continue to be the case if he doesn’t sway her to his side.  “I was hoping you’d be able to figure out the traje—”

“Trajectory of the shot and the angle from which it came, yes, yes.  Of course I was able to.“

“No.  Right.  Of c _ourse_ , you were able to,” John says with a roll of his eyes.  

“Hard to do with just one data point, though,” she says.  “Would have needed some a few more.”

“Which is why I shot you multiple times.”  Yeah.  Yeah, that’s good.  That sounds totally believable.  “So, you see, I was actually helping you.”

“And how generous you were,” she says, tone flat.  “What is it you want from me, John?”

“Well,” she says, “I was thinking that between your skill set and my obvious vantage point, the two of us would make a… killer team.”

Penelope’s sigh seems to suggest something about the Tracy boys and their disappointing appreciation for a good pun.  “So you’re looking for an alliance.”

No.  Not at all.  John is not looking for an alliance, he is looking for a justifiable means to mercy.  Strategy.  It’s all strategy and John is a master at strategy, as proven by his current score.  “Yes.  Exactly that.”

“How convenient,” she says, dropping to his level, pulling her own gun out.  “I was looking for the very same thing.”

John blinks.  “You were?”

“If you can’t beat them, then you have to join them, no?”

“Uhh…”  And no matter what she says or how she moves, it doesn’t change the fact that he hadn’t been expecting it to be so easy.  “Yeah!  I mean, uh, no, yeah.  Definitely.”

“Good,” she says.  A part of him notices that EOS is awfully quiet in his ear, but a much more present part of himself can’t stop noticing the fact that maybe its all a little _too_ easy.  “Glad to see we’re on the same page.  And this really is a nifty little corner you’ve tucked yourself into here.”

Way, _way_ too easy.  “Penelope, what are you—?”

He must be jumpy, because she reads him before he can get a whole breath out.  “Oh calm down, John,” she says.  “It’s not like I have any reason to seek vengeance upon you.”

Except she does.  She very much does have reason to seek vengeance.  “Oh no.”

“And it’s not like I have reason to form an alliance with your brothers in order to take down a common enemy.”

“Oh god.”

“Is that a prayer, John?” she says, smile wide.  “Because you may need it.”

EOS is in his ear again.  There are so many times when having her in his ear is a comfort, but this is not one of them.  “All targets approaching at your twelve o’clock,” she says.  “It was very nice knowing you, John.”

A lot happens in the next few moments.  There’s a hand on his back and a shove in the wrong direction.  There’s the pull of gravity as he falls, falls through the darkness of space, until he finally lands in the sticky sweet stench of a bright neon ball pit.  Air escapes him, his muscles groan, and when he finally opens his eyes, he’s faced with a family of furious shooters, all of their guns aimed directly at his chest.  “Well hello there, Johnny,” says Gordon.  “Nice of you to _drop_ by.”

A single, clumsy gunman plows through the rest, and as he takes aim, it’s clear that Brains’ glee outweighs that of any of his teammates.  He obviously doesn’t mean it when he says, “S-sorry, John.”

There’s a click of the trigger.  There’s a song in his chest.  John Tracy lies there, dead at the hands of his family, waiting to be buried.

And then, finally, EOS is in his ear once more.  “John, I have terrible news,” she says.  “I feel as though your theory about laser tag repercussions may have a few flaws.”


End file.
